


Half Moon

by newtgottlaid



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Anyway they're still in love and that's what matters, Hermann sucks at communicating but he's doing his best, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, More like angst with a hopeful ending?, PNW setting not that it's important, Pining about the ocean, This was supposed to be domestic fluff but it went awry, Uprising doesn't happen, post-pr1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:21:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23097001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newtgottlaid/pseuds/newtgottlaid
Summary: After Newton leaves for Shao Industries, Hermann Gottlieb buys a beach cottage.(Alternatively: I wanted to write a cute domestic beach house fic, I don’t know where things went so wrong)
Relationships: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb
Comments: 6
Kudos: 31





	Half Moon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [skeleton_twins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skeleton_twins/gifts).



> For my darling Erica, happy birthday, sorry this ended up so sad (T_T)

Seven months after the world didn’t end, Hermann Gottlieb packed the past five years of his life into a beat-up suitcase and left the Hong Kong shatterdome one last time.

Marshal Hansen had told him that he needn’t leave so soon, that the PPDC was willing to provide him a stipend and continued housing, but Hermann couldn’t bear the moldy, windowless facility a moment longer. Not without Newton. 

Newton, who had been gone nearly a month at that point— left suddenly on a red eye the night after he received the job offer from Liwen Shao. He left nothing behind but his specimen tanks. Two weeks later, Hermann received a short email: Newton was fitting in well at his new job, this really was going to be the one, you know? He was finally going to be a rockstar. He was sorry to leave their joint manuscript half finished, and he was sorry that the other half-finished things between them couldn’t have worked out the way Hermann had hoped. You know how things are, though, right? You can't have it all. Anyway, could someone please start forwarding his mail to his new address in Shanghai?

Hermann deleted the email halfway through his sixth read-through, opened a new browser window, and began searching for a new place to live. 

* * *

Now, eight months after the world didn’t end, Hermann Gottlieb stands on his back porch and watches the sun set over the cold Oregon coast. He pulls his coat tighter around himself, and imagines if he squints hard enough, he might be able to see Shanghai from here. Might be able to see Newton. 

After the sun is long gone and the cold becomes unbearable, Hermann heads back indoors. He makes himself a cup of tea, stretches out his leg on the couch, and turns on the television. Years of working tirelessly to stop an alien invasion has left him with a backlog of pop culture to re-familiarize himself with, and regardless, he’s found he needs the distraction, the noise, to sleep. In the month since he’s moved into the small seaside cottage, he’s only slept in his bedroom once. It was the first night; the bed was too big, too cold, the room too quiet. He supposed it was his own fault for becoming so accustomed to the small PPDC-issued cots— made ever smaller by the warm, sturdy body that had pressed tightly to his own ever since the clock stopped— and vowed to himself that sleeping on the too-small couch would only be temporary. It’s been weeks now, but Hermann figures that “temporary” can be as long as he needs. The television is a poor substitution for the never-ceasing hum of the shatterdome, the comforting sound of sleep-heavy breaths in his ear, but he makes do. 

The days blend together, time becomes meaningless (though Hermann could tell you down to the minute how long it's been since Newton's departure, since the last time he saw his friend, since their last kiss). Hermann finishes their joint manuscript and submits it for review. He keeps in touch with Tendo, who asks what the weather in the Pacific Northwest is like and _doesn't_ ask how Hermann is doing. He finishes all the books he never had time to read, takes up baking, and learns to crochet— small patterned squares, at first, then scarves, and now a myriad of small and imperfect sea creatures that populate the empty space on his bookshelf. 

He attributes his newfound interest in marine biology to the drift with Newton, just as he holds their lingering mental connection responsible for his sudden preference for brushing his teeth with warm water and his ever-increasing distaste for meat.

He tries not to think about the blue-tinged urge to open a breach on the ocean floor that scratches at the edge of his consciousness. He tries not to think about who or what that comes from. (He tries even harder not to wonder if Newton is feeling the same way, if he's feeling it _worse_ , and if it had anything at all to do with his sudden lack of interest in their budding relationship and the life they had been planning together.)

The weeks go by and it becomes easier. Hermann still takes long walks on the beach, still looks out over the water, still feels that ache in his chest (both for what’s across the ocean and what he _wishes_ was at the bottom of it). But he doesn’t analyze it anymore; doesn’t even think about it, really. He’s just accepted the hurt as something he’s going to have to live with, like the pain in his leg or the bloody ring around his left pupil. 

It's nearing the third month of his stay at the beach cottage; Hermann's stirring milk into his tea and listening to the rain patter in sheets against the roof. He's about to turn in for the night— that is, sit in front of the television until he passes out from sheer exhaustion— when there's a quiet knock at the door. Hermann isn't friendly with his neighbors, and it's far too late to be a solicitor— he approaches the front door with near apprehension. 

"Who is it?" Hermann asks.

Several moments of silence. Hermann's about to ask again, when he hears the quiet reply. "It's Newt."

Hermann can't unlock the door fast enough, even as he feels the base of his stomach drop out and all the blood rush from his face. He's almost afraid to believe it's really him, though he knows that voice is unmistakable.

Hermann's heart pounds as he quickly pulls the door open. It really is Newton, leaning heavily against the doorframe, three-piece suit soaked through with rainwater, thick hair plastered to his forehead. Hermann can make out, even in the dim porchlight, that his eye injury, _their_ _eye injury_ , is a lot worse than last time he saw it. 

Newton’s voice breaks as he asks, “Can I stay here for a while?”

* * *

Hermann knows he should be confused, should be upset, should be _hurt_ . Newton _left_ — he left without even saying goodbye, he left as if he had never uttered hushed promises, late at night with nothing between them but a layer of sweat— he _left_ and he left Hermann alone and Hermann knows he shouldn’t forgive him so easily, but as Hermann watches him unbutton his ruined vest with shaking fingers, Hermann feels whole again for the first time in months. He barely remembers to be courteous— pulls his eyes too late from Newton’s shivering, naked form, and grabs a blanket from the couch. He’s careful not to let his fingers graze even an inch of skin as he wraps it around Newton, lest the glistening monsters leap off Newton’s chest and devour him whole. It’s not until Newton is settled on the couch, still nude but for the damp blanket pulled tightly around his shoulders, that he trusts himself to speak.

“Wh- what,” Hermann’s voice cracks.

What’s going on? What are you doing here?

 _What have you done?_

Hermann opens his mouth to speak again and no words come out. Instead, he takes a deep breath and summons up all the feelings of concern, of confusion, of care— and pushes them towards Newton in his mind. He hopes his friend can hear him through the drift.

Whether Newton hears him or not, he seems to understand what Hermann is asking.

He doesn’t respond though, just mumbles an apology into Hermann’s shoulder as he fists his hands in Hermann’s sweater and pulls him close.

* * *

Hermann _insists_ Newton take the bed. He doesn’t mention that he’s only slept in it once, anyway.

* * *

Newton sleeps the majority of the next few days. Hermann gives him some clothes to borrow, old collegiate sweaters and sweatpants far too long for Newton’s short frame. After about a week, Newton has adjusted into a somewhat normal sleep schedule, and he and Hermann have fallen into something of a routine. Hermann cooks them breakfast, they play a few games of chess, Newton naps on the couch while Hermann completes sudoku puzzles at the kitchen table. They might walk into town for an early dinner at the local diner, or they might cook a meal together in comfortable silence. In the evenings, Hermann works on completing the research manuscripts he abandoned in 2013 while Newton wades knee-deep into the ocean and stands there until his legs turn numb. They sleep separately— Newton in the bedroom, Hermann on the couch— and they don’t talk about what’s happened.

Even as they become friendly again— even as Hermann cooks Newton bizarre vegetarian breakfast sausages, takes him shopping for new skinny ties, indulges him in yet another monster movie marathon— Hermann’s instincts are telling him to pull himself together and confront him. To yell and scream and figure out what the hell happened. But Hermann has never had terribly good instincts when it comes to Newton, so he doesn't do any of that. 

Hermann figures he’s owed an explanation, but decides that all he can do is trust that it will come when Newton is ready.

Weeks go by. Slowly but surely, things get better; they start talking again, start bickering again, start laughing. Newton asks to come along on his weekly trips to the farmer’s market. Hermann gets up the nerve to reach for Newton’s hand while they’re walking along the beach together.

“It’s so dumb how people always say ‘the moon controls the tides’ as if that’s all there is to it,” Newton says, one night as they’re sitting on the back porch. They’ve started spending so much time just sitting together, stargazing or watching the ocean, that Hermann’s sprung for an overly luxurious porch swing, complete with pillows and blankets for them to cuddle up with.

“It's such an oversimplification of the tidal system,” Newton whines, “There are like, _so_ many factors which determine the tides besides the moon.” He starts counting off on his fingers. “The sun. The rotation of the earth. The topology of the ocean floor!” He laughs, “The breach, probably.”

 _Fuck all that,_ Hermann thinks, _you’re the moon and I’m the tides._

* * *

One day, while Hermann’s baking a cake (for no special reason, just that they’re nearing their forties and they’re allowed the occasional dessert for dinner) Newton comes bursting in the back door. He runs up to the counter and holds something out for Hermann to inspect. “Dude, check thi—”

“Newton,” Hermann chastises with a teasing grin, “can you _please_ stop wearing your shoes in—”

“I’m serious!” Newton’s voice is as excited as Hermann’s heard it in months, “check out this shell! I brought it because I—” he laughs sheepishly, “I dunno, I thought of you? I thought you might like it.” He turns bright red as he hands it over.

Hermann turns it over in his hands. It’s an ordinary cerith shell, notable only in that it’s whole, not yet chewed up by the mighty waves of the Pacific.

Newton answers his question before he can even ask. “It’s the fractals, dude, don’t you see?” He runs his finger along the side of the shell. “The same pattern the whole way down. What’s that thing you always say? Math is the handwriting of God?” He flashes a quick, crooked smile, and— that’s it, Hermann’s pulling him across the counter for a kiss.

Hermann sleeps on a real bed for the first time in months. 

* * *

The next morning, Hermann is surprised to wake up alone. The duvet is rumpled where Newton left it, his pillow still warm. Hermann pulls an old sweatshirt over his pajamas and leaves their room— the back door is open, and a cool breeze blows through the house. He sees Newton alone on his back porch, gazing out over the misty coastline. Newton doesn't turn around as he approaches and wraps his arms around Newton’s waist, but quietly asks, "Do you still feel it, too?"

"Of course," Hermann says, unable to keep the _lovestruck_ out of his voice, "much more strongly, even, now that you're here."

"No," Newton turns to face him, he looks sad, "I mean the other."

Oh. Hermann releases Newton’s waist, leans heavily on the railing alongside him instead. It’s a moment before he speaks— he isn’t sure what to say, what would hurt Newton the least— but he settles for telling the truth. "The urge seems to be fading with time, but it's still there." He looks down at his hands, at the ocean, anywhere but at Newton when he asks the next question. "Is—," he steels his voice against shaking, "is that why you left?"

Newton hums. "It seemed like the easiest way, industry. With all the automation."

 _To finally have a reason—_ Hermann’s shoulders release tension he didn’t realize he was holding in. The relief only lasts a moment, though. Then comes the anger. 

"I should have known," Hermann sputters out, "I mean, I should have been able to guess what was going on." He looks at Newton now, looks at the man who’s always meant more to him than anybody, and wonders why he didn’t think to say something, to _do_ something. 

"No, no," Newton says softly, reaching out and grasping Hermann’s arm. Hermann sags into the touch. “You couldn't have known. I barely even knew."

Hermann stays silent, he can feel his bottom lip trembling now, and he’s afraid what will come out if he opens his mouth. 

Newt reaches under the top of Hermann’s sweatshirt and gently pulls on the chain hung around Hermann's neck. The ring slips free of Hermann’s undershirt and the skull glistens in a cruel grin as the morning light hits it. "You kept it." It's a question.

_The warm afterglow of their first time making love. Fingers laced together as Newton giggles something incoherent into Hermann's shoulder. Suddenly, Newt yanks the ring off his pinky finger and holds it up._

Hermann closes his hand around Newton's. "Of course I kept it. I—" he feels his eyes start to well up with tears, "I thought— I had thought you proposed."

_We'll figure it out, right? You and me? He slides the ring onto Hermann's left hand. The metal is heavy and warm. Hermann pulls him in for another kiss._

Newton looks pained. He squeezes his eyes shut, and when he opens them, he's crying too. "I did," he lets out a wet laugh, "or at least I meant to. I didn't do it right." 

_We'll figure it out. Together._

Hermann gives a sad smile. "Do you want to try again?"

**Author's Note:**

> Now just imagine all the cute and domestic things they do in their beach house now that they have all that feelings shit sorted out!!
> 
> Also: title is inspired by Half Moon by Blind Pilot, which I think suits the vibe.


End file.
